


Immaculate

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Always Female Dean, Artificial Insemination, Birth, Breeding Kink, Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, F/M, Genderswap, Impregnation Kink, Lactation, Parent/Child Incest, Pregnancy, Sexual Inexperience, Sibling Incest, Size Difference, Teen Pregnancy, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-04-27 23:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5068582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For an spn kink meme prompt: "For reasons, some kind of elaborate magic spell maybe, John needs a baby born of a virgin. Well, Dean, either carrier/omega Dean or always a girl Dean, is a virgin still. In any case, John gets obsessed with knocking up his virgin son/daughter. Up to you if Dean is cooperating or John drugs Dean when he inseminates the virgin with slimmest syringes, so as to not break Dean's hymen. Maybe he locks Dean in a chastity device to assure Dean's virginity at the birth. Or locks Dean away from society.</p><p>    After the ritual (which should not harm the baby. It's not blood sacrifice), John finally indulges himself and takes Dean's virginity. If you can call a pussy that birthed a baby virgin still. After all, technically, it did have a penis in it already- that of John and Dean's infant son, you know, during the birth."<br/>READ THE NOTES</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unto us a son is given

**Conception minus 41 minutes**

The child whose birth will indirectly save the world is conceived on a Saturday, right in the middle of Dean’s fertile period, around ten-thirty AM. John will always remember because he’d had drive Sammy into town for a study group: eighth grade state-wide science fair was coming up and Sam insisted that he had to be at the library the moment it opened.

Right before they left, when Sam had run back into the bedroom to get a lab notebook, Dean stepped out of the bathroom holding the thermometer she’d taken from the first aid kit. “Today,” she’d said, firmly, and before John could respond, she’d ducked back into the bathroom, yelling over her shoulder to Sammy: “If it’s the blue spiral one, you left it next to the couch, geek!”

In a daze, John had driven into town and dropped Sam at the library to meet with the other Nebraska Young Scientists.  He'd stopped on the way back to gas up the Impala, as though it were just a regular Saturday instead of the first step down a slippery slope that he'd been thinking about for too long. In the gas station minimart, he notices a rack of condoms behind the counter.  He stares so long that the cashier leers, “Feeling lucky?”

John glares him into silence before selecting a packet—ribbed, unflavored, size L. “Very.”

**Conception minus 28 minutes**

The cabin is completely silent when he returns. John hesitates in the miniscule kitchen: he’s so hot with want that he feels too large and clumsy for the space. This isn’t helped when he finds Dean sitting in the middle of his bed, dwarfed by a large t-shirt that John is pretty sure is actually his. The sweatpants she’d had on under them earlier are nowhere in sight and he can tell from the curve of her breasts under the worn fabric that she’s not wearing a bra either.

“Hey,” he says, suddenly awkward. “I got—” he holds up the plastic bag from the mini-mart, unable to actually say the word _condom_ in front of the teen-aged girl he’s supposed to impregnate. In front of _his daughter_.

“Good,” Dean says. “I think that’s the last thing we needed.” She actually, God help her, checks a scrap of paper, biting her lip like she’s consulting a complicated recipe. Jesus, John loves her so much in that moment that he somehow finds himself crossing the floor to read over her shoulder, all awkwardness dissolved. The paper is actually a page from a calendar, each day marked with some hieroglyphic related to Dean’s cycle. At the bottom, a list of herbs related to fertility, and then… _5 ml needleless syringe_ , it says in Dean’s careless handwriting, _lubricant_. This close, John can smell Dean’s hair. He can see the way her nipples have pebbled up under the shirt, finds himself wants to lick her collarbone where the stretched neck of it gapes open. _Condoms_ are on the list, with _paper cups??_ written and then crossed out. At the very bottom _pregnancy tests (a couple)_.

When he reads that far John gathers his daughter to him. She feels so small; she _is_ so small, especially since Sam got his growth spurt. “You sure about this, honey?” _Oh, god_ , he hopes she is, he’s hard from just the idea of it. “If you’re not, I’m sure we can think of some oth—”

Dean wriggles, settling herself against his chest. (Can she feel how hard he is? Surely she doesn’t mean to tease, but John’s thickened up so much he’s not sure he’ll be able to get out of these jeans when the moment comes). “Spell calls for _milk of a first son’s virgin mother,_ Dad. I’m pretty sure that’s not the sort of thing you can just order over the internet.”

It’s true: they both know it. He and Bobby have checked the translation every possible way, looked at every imaginable interpretation. They’d even managed to secure a new mother’s first milk—Mick Hanlon in Colorado’s wife had a little boy and John had driven all night with a mason jar in the passenger’s seat—only to find that it didn’t purify the druidic gateway at all. (“Well,” Bobby had said philosophically, “baby’s the spit of Mick himself, so we know Julie’s no virgin.”)

“It’s okay, Daddy,” Dean shifts so she can face him and her tight little ass grinds so sweetly. “I know what it means. Just…” She hesitates and John waits without breathing. “I’ve never….so, I mean, almost, once and I've been reading—like, you would’ve thought I was Sammy,” she tries to joke. “But…could you help me, uh, get ready?”

John does. Gathers her hair and ties it up out of her eyes, tugs the shirt over her head when she obediently raises her arms, lays her back into the nest of mismatched pillows. Kisses her, brings his hand up to fondle her little tits so she’ll sigh, so he can taste her slick little tongue when she parts her lips. In his experience, small-chested girls are more sensitive and, sure enough, when he rubs his stubbled cheek against Dean’s tight nipple, she makes the prettiest noise. Her legs just open beneath him, automatic, and it must be instinct since she's never been with anyone else.  It's been hard for her to make friends, what with all their moves, and John guesses that some would be suitors are a little put off by Dean's family.  He'll make it up to her.  

He cups her pussy. “So wet, angel.”

“Is that bad?” she bites her lip again, suddenly shy.

“It’s so good,” john praises. “Delicious,” and he emphasizes this by dropping one quick kiss onto her belly and then diving between her legs. Dean jumps and twitches so much when he starts licking her that he finally pins her hips down. She growls, dissatisfied, and twists her hands in his hair, trying to move his head where she wants it. John nearly laughs with elation—even now, his Dean is such a fighter, always wanting things her way. He lets her use the length of his tongue, from her hole to her clit. He wants to put his fingers there, on the little nerve-head, but she’s so wet he’s afraid they’ll slip. If she busts her hymen now, the whole exercise will have been wasted—where else will they find a virgin willing to be impregnated so her milk can break an ancient curse? On the other hand, if they weren't trying to preserve her virgin status (as defined in a thirteenth century book of witchcraft), John could have her the way he wants her right now. 

The thought forces him to pull back. “Dean, Dee—sweetie, I gotta…”

“Can I?” she asks, timidly, reaching for the plastic bag. And so John pops the button on his jeans and lets her peel away the fabric.

“Oh!” Dean is so genuinely surprised that he know it must be true: his little girl has never seen a man's cock this close before. “It’s bigger than I thought,” she studies his dick, completely unselfconscious, running her fingers along the shaft to the head. John is gritting his teeth and he must make a sound that conveys the urgency of the situation because Dean extracts a condom from the packet. She’s so inexperienced that John has to guide her little hands as she rolls it on. Her fingers feel cold because his skin is so hot.

He’d barely allowed himself to think about this moment, but when he had, he’d imagined himself rubbing one out in the bathroom—or, hell, in the living room or the kitchen or anywhere that his virginal daughter was not—and then bringing her the result. But in the moment, his balls are boiling so much that all he can do is drop to his knees right there at the side of the bed and fuck his own fist. He can taste her as he gasps for air, the salt-sweet liquid of her little pussy.  _L_ _ittle_ is right: a cunt that has never had anything in it except his tongue, and maybe her own slim fingertips and the occasional tampon. Soon it’s going to have his seed and, after that, if they have any luck at all: his baby. John’s always sired big babies. Sam had broken a record at the rural hospital where he’d been born and even Dean, small as she is now, had been nearly ten pounds when Mary had birthed her. How was Dean’s little pussy, unstretched and virgin-tight, ever going to manage? John tightens his own fist in sympathy; a ridge on the condom catches him under his cockhead, almost painful, and he feels an answering tension in his spine. He cries out when he cums, his stomach clenching rhythmically as he pumps into the condom.

**Conception minus 6 minutes**

Dean’s hips rest on four stacked pillows scavenged from all over the house; John recognizes Sammy’s plaid pillowcase two down from the top. The hair between her legs is lighter than what’s on her head—she looks almost bare. John brushes it gently with his thumb. Already, he's decided: he’ll shave her when she gets big enough that she has to go for doctor’s appointments. One-handed, he massages her thigh, strong but relaxed, and suppresses the urge to sink his teeth into the muscle there. Dean sighs contentedly and obediently opens her legs wider. John rewards her with a kiss on the knee. She goes tight when he brings the little syringe to her pussy, but he smooths a hand down the flat slope of her belly. He holds her like that, his big hairy hand looking brutally _male_ against the soft pale skin of her stomach, and he holds her gaze, too, looking down between her tits to where she’s staring back at him. Her mouth is the same dusky pink as her nipples. She’s so wet that she doesn’t even realize she’s been penetrated until he moves the syringe too close to her cervix. Then she lets out a pained little grunt.

“Sorry,” John whispers. He can’t bear to break the hush of their breathing. “The book says you need deep penetration if you want a boy.” Dean answers by pushing back against him— _not afraid, I can take it_. And she does, right up against her tender womb. John lets out a shuddery breath: _no one_ has ever been this far inside his daughter.

“There you go,” John breathes, “So beautiful, sweetheart.” He gently depresses the syringe, pouring the semen into her. Propped on her elbows, Dean tips her head back and closes her eyes, like somehow she’d actually felt it. It had felt so warm when John’d suctioned it out of the condom, hot from his body, perhaps she had. After a moment, John begins to knead her belly. He licks her clit—once, twice—and then begins to circle it with his thumb.

Dean’s eyes open, quizzical. “Daddy?”

“It’s okay,” John wants her to call him that forever, “it’ll be good if you….if you, the, uh, it'll go deeper, I mean.” Ridiculous: he is kneeling on a bed between his naked daughter’s knees, wearing only a t-shirt, having just jacked off in an effort to knock her up and he can’t bring himself to say the word 'semen' or explain that an orgasm will improve the chances of conception. But Dean doesn’t seem to care: she just lays back, confident in his hands. She’s so tight the syringe stays in her body even when he’s not holding it. He can see it tremble as she clenches around it, sensitive.

**Conception minus zero minutes**

Dean’s pink mouth drops open, “Daddy?” she gasps, “Daddy- _daddy_ -dad— _oh!_...”  She licks her lips, her eyelids flutter, she makes tiny, kittenish whimpers. John works his palm over her belly, where he guesses her g-spot might be. She fists the sheets, a pretty flush spreading over her breasts. Will that work? Is she too young to—Dean’s hips lift off the pillows and roll with all the strength in her body.

**Conception plus 15 minutes**

John makes Dean lay with her hips elevated for another ten minutes. He brings her a glass of water from the kitchen, holds her head so she can drink it, kisses the cold water off her lips. He jerks off one more time in the bathroom, thinking about the waste of seed when he flushes the toilet, remembering how she'd called for him when she came in his hands. Finally, he spoons behind her and kicks the pillows to the floor. He tucks his knee between her thighs since he can’t very well plug her. She rocks against him, sleepy but not sore. He’s checked: her hymen is a little stretched but still intact. For the purposes of the spell, Dean Winchester is a virgin. John tucks her head under his chin and rests his hands on her flat belly. (So tiny; his fingers nearly touch).

“What if it’s a girl?” he asks. He wouldn’t mind another girl, if it weren’t for the spell.

“Well,” Dean replies drowsily, “then the world will end.”


	2. Unto us a child is born

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is part two--it does contain kinda-graphic birth and references to the chastity device mentioned in the prompt, so skip it if you don't like it. You won't miss anything when I write chapter 3. STILL underage and, consequently, sort of non-con.

**Conception plus 15 hours**

John wakes suddenly, instantly, in the middle of the night. His hunter’s instincts tell him there is something else in the room.

“Daddy?” Dean’s voice is barely a whisper, careful not to wake Sam next door.

“’s wrong, baby?” John asks automatically, and then thinks…he might need another nickname for her soon.

His daughter makes her way silently across the room. There’s no need to turn on a light: her night vision is perfect. “Daddy, I think we should… Again.” In the half-light, he can see her lashes drop, shyly. “You know. To be sure.”

John wonders if there’s even been enough time to know if the first try worked or not, but she’s already shucking off her sleep shirt. The room is lit by moonlight and the faint, sodium wash of a bare bulb on the back porch. The shadows of the window blinds slice across her milky skin. Her nipples tighten in the spring night air. Of course, they can’t be too certain. Wordlessly, John holds open the blankets.

He doesn’t use his fist this time. In the quiet dark, with Dean curled us next to him, it’s the most natural thing in the word to thumb down his briefs, roll on a condom, and rub the latex-covered head of his cock against the soft washed cotton where her panties cover the curve of her ass. Dean gives a little hiccup, surprised all over again at how big he is, or how hard, but then she arches back and lets him rut against her.

John wraps one arm around her slim hips to hold her where he needs her. He can smell her hair, feel her sleepy warmth. This is how he’d have her, if he could have her: his body wrapped around her, like he’s protecting her from a blast. Or, no, maybe she’d better be underneath him, so he could see her, every inch. She’s young and flexible, capable of doing splits and twists that make even Sammy blench. He could hitch one leg over his shoulder, spread her wide…John comes imaging the many ways he’d like to fuck his baby girl.

He can’t bring himself to look at her, now that her back is slick with his sweat and she has his bitemark on her shoulder, so he tips her onto her knees. He eases the little cotton panties down; they’re so wet that for a moment, he thinks the condom has leaked…but no, it’s just her own juices. Jesus, she’s so _wet_. John just wants to drink her down. But, he reminds himself, he’s a hunter on a mission.

John doesn’t dare turn on the lights, not with Sammy on the hide-away couch in the living room, but in his line of work, he’s never far from a flashlight. The bright, focused light and the plastic smell of the new syringe makes things oddly clinical, at least until Dean slips her little hand down to where the syringe pierces her pussy. She is peeking at John coyly, glancing over her shoulder, her head pillowed on one arm so her hips are the highest part of her body. This position opens her so much that she nearly cries out at the depth of the thin hypodermic before she quickly remembers herself and bites her lip. John hates that there is even a moment of pain, but at the same time, he wants his swimmers as close as possible to her fertile womb.

He leaves the flashlight on even after he’s emptied and removed the syringe, because it’s breathtaking, watching her pleasure herself. She comes twice, heavy-lidded eyes watching him watching her, and tries to push herself to a third climax. Her face is a study in beautiful concentration, flushed, forehead furrowed. She pants harshly, can’t quite get there, until John cups one ripe breast in his palm and sharply twists her nipple. Her tits are always sensitive when she ovulates. She’d die of embarrassment if she knew he knew, but you don’t survive as a hunter without being keenly observant.

**Conception plus 126.5 hours**

They try again Thursday afternoon, when Sammy stays late after school for Chess Club. With the cabin to themselves, Dean simply braces herself against their ragged secondhand couch and hitches up her uniform skirt. The Baptist high school is the only one in the county that will take her with her disciplinary record (and then only because John was helpful in cleaning up after a botched exorcism), and Dean always rolls her skirt too high, building a reputation as a bad-ass that John knows is only partially true. Yes, she’s dangerous; no, she hasn’t slept with half the football team. Or, as John has reason to know, _any_ of the football team. It’s not a particularly good position for conception, but neither of them notice.

After, he takes her onto his lap, unbuttons her prim uniform blouse and mouths her breasts. Mary used to get achey a week or so before her time of the month and that always soothed her. There are three more syringes, still in their sterile packaging, but John tells Dean they should wait awhile. He says they should give it time, that it might take a little longer this way, but they’ve got nearly a year to close the demon gateway. No rush. “Need to give your body a rest,” he says gruffly, “no use forcing things.” But what he really means is that if he keeps finding a half-naked virgin in his lap, she won’t be a virgin for long.

**Conception plus 29 days**

John comes back from a hunt covered in congealing blood, none of it his. He takes a shower nearly hot enough to scald him and he’s just managed to scrub the last of the gunk from underneath his fingernails when his eye catches a scrap of packaging from one of the pregnancy tests, half buried in the bathroom trash.

“Sammy,” John calls, opening the bathroom door in a cloud of steam, “go out to the car and bring in my bag, wouldja? Careful, there’s a hex chest in the backseat. Don’t touch it, I mean it.”

Sam rolls his eyes, mumbles something about slave labor, and reluctantly leaves his calculus homework spread over the kitchen table.

“I coulda got it,” Dean says, turning from the sink where she’s washing up the supper dishes. She’s always after John to let Sam alone about his studies. She is, John thinks, going to make a wonderful mama.

“Are you in any condition to be toting stuff?” John asks.

Dean snorts, but one soapy hand creeps involuntarily to her stomach.

John’s breath catches. He does the math in his head—it’s possible, if she’d caught that first day, or the night after. His hand covers hers. “Yes?”

Dean looks up through her lashes, shy but proud. “Yes.”

Distantly, John hears the slam of the Impala door. Sam will be back in a moment, sullen and annoyed. John drops to his knees in their small, rental kitchen and presses a kiss to the smooth skin below his girl’s navel, where his child is growing.

**Conception plus 40 weeks, 3 days, 8 hours.  
**

Dean gives birth exactly one day before her due date. John gets the call at work, not long after he’d dropped Sammy at school—they’ve moved twice since Dean fell pregnant, each time further from town, and now they’re too far out for even the school bus. Her voice sounds thin but excited over the crappy phone line: “M’water broke, Daddy. Our baby’s coming.”

John calls the midwife, then calls the mother of Sam’s friend to let her know Sam will be coming home with Tyler after school.  He accepts the congratulations of his boss. The guys at the garage have never met Dean—John was careful to settle _far_ out of town—but have somehow formed the impression that she’s John’s wife. He has not corrected them. He's in the Impala, driving back to his baby, within fifteen minutes.

Dean is waiting for him when he arrives, her hands kneading her back, belly thrust out in front. They never bothered with maternity clothes, just started buying stuff a few sizes bigger, and he can see her belly button through the stretched fabric, her thick nipples. Their new house is a partially-winterized old double-wide up on blocks: it’s cold this deep in the woods, and the midwife had warned him it could be hours yet. “First baby,” she’d said sympathetically. First _son_ , John hoped.

Could be hours yet, so they go back to bed, to the big, sagging mattress in the only proper bedroom, which Sam and John have ceded to Dean since the six month mark. No sense in getting cold and, besides, it’s good to hold her, to wrap his arms around Dean's big, active belly. It’s been such an easy pregnancy, even though the baby is large, that John suspects at least a few of their preparatory fertility spells had worked. Dean had barely a week of morning sickness, and if her cravings had been odder and more intense than Mary’s were, they weren’t so different from her usual road diet. And all the pie she’d been craving had gone straight to her tits, turning the tight little globes into large, blue-veined handfuls capped with chocolate-colored aureole big as silver dollars. Dean seemed to relish her changing body, carrying low.  These last few weeks, she's had one palm nearly always holding her belly. John’s little tomboy, lean muscled and flat-chested, is gone, replaced by a soft, round creature whose bow-legs only emphasize her obscenely swollen stomach. John’s seen more than a few male eyes following Dean; Child Protective Services is only one reason they live this far off the grid.

In the early months, Dean had been diligent about low-cost clinics and Planned Parenthood, gotten all the early scans, always found a reason to skip the internal exams, gave vague answers about the actual birthing plan. Out here in the woods, they’d found an ex-hippie midwife who thought it was beautiful that Dean’s family was supporting “her natural role as a woman” and who didn’t ask too many questions about paternity, Dean’s or the baby’s. Dean had become her star patient. “If your body says you’re ready, you’re ready,” the midwife had said, cavalierly. “Just look at Dean—you’d hardly know she’s just eighteen, she’s such a model of healthy pregnancy. You should be thankful.” And John was: thankful for forged birth certificates and good health.

There had been only one side-effect, and John doesn’t know if this is normal, or due to the fact that it’s a _special_ baby. In her second trimester, Dean had been unbelievably horny. You’d never know she was a virgin, from the inventive uses that she found for John’s fingers and tongue. She’d begged him to take her ass, to fuck her new tits. She’d been so frantic that, for those few months, John had actually made her wear a chastity belt, afraid she’d get so desperate with hormones that she’d take someone in a random truck-stop bathroom. The chain, thin as a necklace but forged with spells and sigils, had looked beautiful against her stretched skin; John liked to trace its route with his tongue—over her hips, under her growing belly.

“Mine,” he’d whisper when he finally reached the curving plate that covered her pussy.

And Dean would shiver and whine (“Yes, Daddy”), pregnancy having made her meeker and more obedient than ever.

**Conception plus 40 weeks, 3 days, 13 hours.**

The contractions start for real a little after noon. John calls the midwife again, then staves off the worst of them by stroking Dean’s hot little cunt, mouthing her breasts, easing her through several slow-building orgasms. “You sure you want another one after this?” he asks, knowing that being contrary is the best way to distract his stubborn daughter. Getting pregnant again has been her fantasy since her three-month scan.

“Don’t—” Dean gasps, “don’t tease. Y’know I do, been telling you long enough.” Her body goes rigid with another spasm and she sinks her teeth into John’s arm to ride it out—and, Jesus, that shouldn’t turn him on as much as it does, but the _fierceness_ in her, the way she refuses to cry even now. Even when she’s about to literally be split apart.

“Tell me about it, one more time,” John suggests as he gently shifts her to her feet. He’s done this twice before, with Mary, and those hadn’t been home-births, but babies are babies. He knows about as much as a man can know.

She does, words curling hot against his ear as he supports her, pacing the room. “Wan’ another one. Lots. Big family,” Dean huffs. “Oh, _oh!_ …wanna feel you put ‘em in me. The real way. Deep in.” Another contraction: this time they both groan with it.

The midwife arrives, puts Dean on her hands and knees, checks the progress of dilation with her fingers (“did you know, you’re very tight down here, my dear,” she remarks blithely and Dean growls savagely, beyond words). Then she tells them to keep walking.

John walks _miles_ around the cabin, guiding Dean’s stumbling steps, letting her hang off him when the pains come. _Contractions_ , and he knows why they’re called that: her lithe young body gets so tight with each one, he can feel the child moving in her belly, working its way down to where she needs to be opened.

At the magical stroke of midnight, their little one comes into the world. Backwards: just one little foot at first, and then the midwife eases a finger in and hooks the other. Dean is squatting between John’s knees, her face pressed to his chest to muffle her panting. She digs her fingers in to his thighs, throws back her head, _howls_ as the infant’s hips pass through her. John kisses her forehead, brushes back the sweat-damp hair, croons sweet words of encouragement as she moans and gathers herself for the final push. She is wild-eyed, open-mouth amazed at the new stretch, wider than anything she’s ever felt in her short life. John looks down and sees, between Dean’s splayed and straining thighs, the lower half of his newest son: two feet, two legs, and the tiny little cocklet that had taken his daughter’s virginity. The only one she’s ever had inside her.


	3. back seat of Jackie's car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter gets closer to non-con, and bring up some new kinks (size kink, Daddy kink, lactation).

**First birth plus 1 hour, 13 minutes**

“Right on time,” Dean says, weary but amused, to the little baby suckling at her tit. The baby—Adam, they call him: the first man for a new world—and his young mama are curled up on the couch while John puts the bedroom to rights. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, but John goes instantly hard when he overhears. Dean means that they’ll have enough time to break the curse, but it reminds him of what the midwife had said on her way out just moments ago, that Dean’s due date had been as accurate as any she’d ever known. Dean must have gotten pregnant on their very first try which, considering their slapdash method of insemination, is nearly miraculous.

John presses his hardness against the back of the couch: pregnant just as soon as he’d touched her, like her body had simply been _waiting_ for him. Then he puts the thought firmly out of his mind and reaches to cup his big hand around his son’s soft baby skull, where it rests on his daughter’s soft breast. They _are_ miraculous, both of them.

**First birth plus 3 weeks, 2 days**

The miracles continue. Adam is the easiest of babies and Sam, surprisingly, turns out to be a doting uncle. He cuts short his exile at his friend Tyler’s house and delights in holding the baby, helping at bath time, watching him sleep in the drawer they use as a crib. All his pre-adolescent surliness vanishes now that he’s a big brother. For Christmas, Dean gives him a set of bottles.

“I have extra milk in the fridge,” she says, “thought you might like to try giving Adam a bottle, in case I ever have to miss a feeding.” Sam’s eyes go round and he dashes into the kitchen. Dean gives John a contented smile over the downy dark head of their youngest. Such a good mama.

Mary used to say that Sam was an old soul and this maturity, unexpected and sometimes off-putting in an eleven-year-old, had meant that none of the biology of pregnancy and birth had fazed him. John doesn’t know what Dean had told him, but his oldest son has never shown the slightest curiosity in Adam’s father. The fact that his sister’s body had incubated another person doesn’t warrant comment, even when Dean, with her usual lack of ceremony, hikes up her shirt and pops a thick nipple into Adam’s hungry mouth.

“Does it—hurt? If he bites?” Sam had asked tentatively one night as he worked on his homework at the kitchen table while Dean fed Adam on the couch.

“He doesn’t have teeth yet, goofball,” Dean had tossed one of Adam’s stuffed toys at her brother. “Feels okay. Even good, sometimes,” she admitted.

John had been thinking of that conversation on Christmas Eve when he’d gently burped Adam, laid him in his drawer, and drawn Dean onto his lap to undo the contraption covering her chest. Nursing bras are an exception to the no-maternity-clothes budget: Dean’s tits had swollen up so full and so round that she’d split the seams on her old bras even before Adam had been born. Once her milk came in, John had to give her daily backrubs because of the way those full udders pulled on her narrow shoulders. Finally, in her last month, one of his long cons came through and he’d taken her to a boutique to be fitted for proper nursing bras. It was the least he could do for the mother of his child. (And, John had to admit, watching the saleswoman’s confident hands measuring and weighing Dean’s abundant tits had made it easier to part with the money).

Late Christmas Eve, with Sammy snug in bed counting sugarplums, John and Dean had time to themselves. Dean had winced a little as John’s big fingers brushed her nipples; Adam fed so often and so vigorously that she’s always sore. She’s lost some of her pregnancy weight in just three weeks because he’s drinking so much of her milkfat. John nuzzled her hair in apology, hefted the softness of her tits in one rough palm. Dean arched back against his broad chest, afraid he’d stop if he thinks he’s hurting—her daddy is so careful with her! Not like boys her age: Dean had liked teasing them, with her short skirts and don’t-care attitude, but she hadn’t actually _wanted_ them. She knew they didn’t love her. Only Daddy loved her. Well, Daddy and now Adam. And Sam.

Dean squirmed when she thought of Sam, even though it made Daddy’s hands tighten on her breasts. She knows what it means when her father’s cock gets hard against her ass and she doesn’t mean to tease. She couldn’t help it! Lately she’s been thinking a lot about her little brother. Not so little—he’s almost taller than she is, and Dean has to wonder just how big he is in other places. She could take him, she thinks. After all, she’s birthed a whole baby! Dean’s mind skips ahead: could Sam—could Sammy put a baby in her? She would’ve said he was too young, but then, lots of people would say she was too young. She _is_ young. Dean knows that if there had been another way, Dad would’ve… But she’s glad there wasn’t. She wouldn’t trade Adam for anything, wouldn’t give up the feeling of having him grow big inside her.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Daddy whispered and for a minute Dean had thought he’s somehow read her mind. But no, he just meant her milk: he’s pulling gently at her breasts and the milk is already nearly covering the bottom on the mixing bowl she’s holding. “You move if you want to, if it helps. Gotta get a few bottles put away for our boy, right, Dee?”

Until her Dad mentions it, Dean hadn’t even realized that she’d been moving at all, rocking against his thigh where it’s holding her, grinding down against the strong muscles of his leg. She’d felt hot and dizzy, a little out of control, but she’d known she was safe. Daddy wouldn’t hurt her and he’s right, they’ll need the milk to feed Adam when she goes to the druid’s gate. Plus, it’s part of Sammy’s present. So she works her hips a little more, matching her movements to the pull on her tits. Why not? Daddy said she could.

It feels good, having Dad’s big thigh between her own. She’s not sore at all, down there, even though she knows she should be. Adam was _big_. Built like his father. A lot of the birth is blurry in her memory, but Dean can still remember the heavy weight of him dropping inexorably lower in her narrow pelvis, the impossible burning stretch of his shoulders leaving her. Dean holds the mixing bowl tight against herself; it’s still warm from being sterilized and feels good against her soft empty belly. At the very end, the midwife had brought Dean’s limp and tingling fingers down to feel the head just beginning to emerge. “There, you see? Just that little bit now.” It hadn’t felt little, especially after the rest of Adam had battered through, but Dean had listened to the midwife chanting _little push, gently now_ , and she’d felt the tight lips of her pussy stretch and open and open and open…

Dean had her first orgasm since giving birth while straddling her father’s knee on Christmas Eve, her infant son and her little brother asleep in the next room. Before she can feel any shame, though, she realizes that her Daddy is moving with her, rutting against her ass, still tugging at her breasts even though all the milk has been wrung out of them. She turns her head, catches his mouth in mid-gasp, feels his tongue slick against her own. They hadn’t kissed much when…well, when he’d been trying to give her Adam. She feels his whiskers scrape her cheek. That wouldn’t happen, Dean thinks vaguely, with Sammy.

**First birth plus 4 weeks, 1 day, 10 hours**

By New Year’s Eve, the night the curse must be broken, Sam is an old hand at bottle-feeding.  He has nominally been put in charge of Adam, though Bobby has come for back-up. He and John had pored over the old map, checking co-ordinates one last time, before waving them off in the Impala. Dad drives silently and Dean rides shotgun, trying not to fidget.

She’s not worried: the spell is pretty fool-proof. She’s not impatient: they have plenty of time. But the ritual calls for a virgin’s _milk_ so Adam has skipped two—nearly three—feedings. So..not scared, not worried, just very, very full. When they finally pull off the highway onto the rutted, overgrown old path, the jolt makes Dean gasp. Her hands jump up to her chest. She can _feel_ herself starting to leak. She knows Adam is safe, knows that they have plenty of milk put aside for him, but it still doesn’t seem right. All her not inconsiderable protective instincts are on red alert and she can’t settle until Daddy reaches over and puts one big, warm hand on her thigh. “Almost there,” he says soothingly.

The druid’s gate was not actually built by druids, of course. There are no true druids in the American Mid-West. But there are witches….or there were, until the nearby townsfolk took exception to the local coven in the year of our Lord 1873. The coven had been eradicated with such violence that nothing was left except a toxic and dangerous curse, rooted in a patch of land once sacred to the Pawnee and destined to come of age at midnight.

The “gate” is really the remnants of an old stone foundation, one of several ill-fated homesteads that failed to flourish on this blighted wasteland. It is one of those crystal cold midwinter nights and high in the vault of the sky is a full moon so bright that John doesn’t even need to light the lantern he brought. He does, though, the third time his flashlight dies. It’s never a bad idea to have fire at hand.

Amidst the tumbled rocks, Dean raises Bobby’s silver-and-jet crucifix and reads the incantation by the light of the moon, her voice clear and decisive. No sooner has she finished the last word than the wind picks up something fierce, boiling up out of the tranquil night. John can see it gusting, nearly flattening the overgrown grasses outside the stone circle, but the air is dead still where they stand at the very eye of the storm. He can see Dean’s eyes go wide as she realizes her mistake: with her hands full, she can’t open her coat. He can see her trying to decide what to put down—the grimoire or the protective fetish. Neither is something you just want to discard on land that is, technically, an embassy of hell.

John hurriedly undoes the old barn coat and the worn flannel shirt beneath. Dean isn’t wearing a bra: her tits are so full and distended that they practically burst into his hands. She whimpers with the relief of letting them hang free. John kisses her temple and thumbs her hardened nipples. Dean’s breasts feel deliciously warm, heavy and taut as John works them, but the milk doesn’t come. The wind rises to a shriek, dark clouds scudding across the moon but the air around John and Dean is as still and cold as in a tomb. John tugs, squeezes, mimics the grip that had emptied her on Christmas Eve—nothing, not a drop. Dean is panting with discomfort, but not yielding anything. Maybe it’s the cold, or nerves, or part of the curse… Finally, John does the only thing he can think of: he ducks his head and sets his teeth around his daughter’s swollen nipple.

He feels one of Dean’s hands come up automatically to cradle his head; a corner of the spellbook digs into his shoulder as he feels her whole body tense and then relax. Suddenly, she cries out in release and his mouth fills with the sweet heat of her milk. The demonic wind dies instantly. In a moment, Dean presses the book into John hand and gently unlatches him from her tit, as carefully as if he were Adam. Now her milk runs freely and when she expresses it onto the old hearthstone, blackened from witch-burning, the rock hisses and steams like she’s poured cold water on a bonfire.

**First birth plus 4 weeks, 1 day, 13 hours**

John trips on the way back to the Impala, nearly loses his balance, and Dean laughs like it’s the funniest thing ever. She laughs so hard she can’t walk straight, either, keeps bumping into him, setting off her giggles again. John’s feeling giddy himself, with relief, with the taste of his daughter still in his mouth.

When they get to the car, he stows the book and the lantern in the trunk, tucks the crucifix into the glove compartment. He feels the suspension dip a little as she hoists herself onto the hood. He joins her, looking up at the night sky.

“Daddy?” Dean asks finally.

“Yeah, hon?”

“I—it hurts, I’m still so…” She makes an abortive wave toward her chest, buttons done up wrong, “So full, Daddy.”  When he looks at her, she actually blushes dark enough to be seen by moonlight, as bashful as if they haven’t already made a baby together, as though she hadn’t carried his son in her body, birthed in his arms. But John needs her to say the words (oh, please, _please_ , let her say the words).

Quick shuddery breath, and then the full force of Dean’s green gaze. Not so bashful now. Already she’s pulling at the buttons on her shirt. “I need you, Daddy. Need your mouth.”

And John, God help him, lets his daughter show her tits to the moon, and then wind her fingers in his hair, and pull his mouth right where she wants it.

“Yeah, yeah, tha’s it,” Dean mumbles in her pleasure, “get it out, ge'it all out of me.” She doesn’t remember, of course, that she’d shouted almost the same thing at the height of her labor. John lets his hands fall to her hips—so slim, how had she fit his big son in there? And how would she fit his cock? Because she had to, he couldn’t wait, not after nine long months of waiting. Dean pulls away a little when John starts unbuttoning her jeans.

“Can I?” John asks, pleading like _he’s_ the virgin

“Uhm, yeah…I wa—oh, wait,” Dean says, breathless, disappointed. “No condoms.”

John groans, desire like a visceral pain. “I just gotta be inside you, sweetheart.” He kisses her; she can’t resist his kisses.  “There won’t be babies. Not while you’re still nursing.” He isn’t actually sure that’s true—after all, the world is full of Irish twins, and Adam’s birth was touched by the supernatural, so who knows what that means for Dean’s fertility? But his daughter is young enough and eager enough that she doesn’t question him. So much for sex ed at the Baptist Academy.

The moon moves westward, illuminating the inside of the car, and the view is beautiful. Dean can shave herself now that she doesn’t have a pregnant belly in the way, but she insists that John do it for her. So he’s very familiar with her sweet, bare pussy. Her hymen hadn’t made it past her sixth month, torn naturally as the baby grew and her hips spread, so he’d been able to get two fingers in her. But still, when John has her stripped and straddling him on the back seat of the impala, Dean looks very small compared with the heavy purple length of his cock. He admires the contrast, enjoys the way her hips shake when he taps her clit with his cockhead, traces a stretchmark. And finally, he enters.

She’s tight, so tight it almost hurts—and that’s good, because otherwise John would cum just from the wet heat of her, the knowledge that he’d helped make the pussy that he is now easing into. He has to hold Dean’s hips at first, to keep her from pulling away involuntarily at the sensation of being penetrated. He can’t fit and then, all of a sudden, she gives way and he’s inside. Dean gasps like she’s been holding her breath for too long. She looks at him, amazed, before reaching down to where they’re joined, just his cockhead inside her, tracing where her cunt is wrapped around him. He can feel her ass flexing under his hands, see her stomach muscles shift as he slides an inch…two…three into her.

“Okay?” he asks when he’s mastered the urge to plow into her.

“Yes, yes,” Dean whimpers, tossing her head because she can’t move with him holding her waist. And, oh, she _needs_ to move. “So b-big, Daddy.”

He lessens his grip so he can run a soothing hand up her back, and she’s so wet, she slips a little lower. This seems to give her some confidence: she bounces a little and John nearly chokes on his own tongue. She has one hand on his shoulder and brings the other to her belly.

“C'n you feel yourself?” she sounds dazed and drunk.

John can, or at least he can feel where her muscles are stretched around him, under the softness from her pregnancy. He can’t think of the last time he was bare inside a woman.

Her curious fingers dip lower to touch his heavy balls.

“D’you wanna come?” Dean asks, and her voice is so breathy that for a moment, John thinks he misunderstood. But then Dean swivels her hips, screwing her cunt down another inch and John finds that focuses his mind wonderfully. “D’you wanna come in me?” Dean asks again, sassy half-smile belying the shadow of discomfort at the edge of her eyes. She stretched so tightly that her cunt throbs in time with her heartbeat. He’s too big for her, really, but he’s the one she wants.

“ _Fuck_ , sweetheart, you have no idea…”

And without ever breaking eye contact, Dean begins to slowly impale herself. Her grip on John’s shoulder grows tighter and her mouth drops open unconsciously, tongue darting out to lick and then bite her lips as she takes the last few inches, where John is thickest. And suddenly her wet cuntlips are on his balls and her challenging expression is replaced by one of stunned confusion.

“Oh, Daddy,” she gasps, trembling and overwhelmed. _Too much, too soon_ , John thinks: story of her life. “I, uhhh—Daddy, kiss me!”

John does, licking gently into her mouth, trying not to jostle her. He feels her hand brush his groin and then she must find her clit because she goes exquisitely tight as all those powerful muscles that had worked to push Adam into the world ripple around him. Dean cries out with each pulse: five times before she drops, sated, against John’s chest.

“Jesus, Dee, did you just….”

“Uhm-hmm,” Dean looks up at him with a wicked, satisfied grin. “Your turn next.”

Dean is softer, more open, after that first orgasm. More still after she rides him to a second, cupping her own breasts to keep them from bouncing painfully when he thrusts. After that, she drops her head onto his shoulder and lets him guide her hips, seems to like seeing his big hands on her. She likes him _in_ her, too—and _deep_ , even though it must hurt a little. She grunts and clenches up each time he bottoms out but all the same she keeps trying to align his thrusts with her sensitive cervix. Finally, after a round or two of teasing keep-away, John just grabs her ass and nails her right where she's asking for it.

**Conception minus three minutes**

“ _Daddy!_ ” Dean wails, eyes flying open.

He punches into her again.

“ _Yes!_ Oh, g—oh, yes, Daddy! _Deeper_ , don’t stop, don’t _ever_ stop…”

“Deep as I can get, girl. Not gonna stop,” John grits out.

Dean presses her forehead to his, clinging to him as his rabbiting thrusts knock sharp yelps out of her mouth. John is distantly aware of the flutter of her lashes against his temple; her warm gasping breaths; the musky, milky smell of her.

“M’close…” he manages, driving into her wildly. John actually _feels_ the moment when the clenching inside her turn into rolling waves. He tries to hold out, but his own toes are curling, spine going liquid even as his hips snap harder…he’s sucked under by the inexorable riptide of his girl’s young body.

She won’t let him pull out afterwards, just wraps her shaking thighs around him and lets him soften inside her.  

“Nnn, don’t go. Stay in me,” Dean mutters when he tries to shift, and there’s nothing he wants more in the world than to rest his head on her soft tits. So he does. She squirms under him a few times and he realizes sleepily that she’s piled their clothing beneath her, wedged up under her trim hips. John thinks about complaining—it’ll be cold in the car once their animal heat has dissipated—but she’s stroking his hair so gently, fitting his mouth to her nipple, that he can’t be bothered.

And that’s how Dean Winchester comes to lose her virginity, like so many other girls, in the backseat of her Daddy’s old car.

 


	4. Life goes on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean--who lures whom? More importantly, should John catch them at it?  
> So underage! Which means there are consent issues. There's also some fingering and sort-of medical kink.

**Conception plus 20 days**

John realizes first. He notices that the last ten pounds of Dean’s pregnancy weight refuse to drop off, even though Adam is growing and eating as regularly as ever. He notices that her tits are sensitive even hours between feedings. He notices that, when he stops by between jobs, during Adam’s afternoon nap, while Sam is at school, Dean is no longer content with kisses—she wants more, deeper, _again_ , like her body has forgotten the curse is broken, like he has left a part of himself inside her and she needs him to be complete. She folds her hands on her stomach when she daydreams. The day she orders a third slice of pie, he knows for sure.

He doesn’t say a word to Dean, though, and she doesn’t suspect anything. Why would she? She’s no longer obsessively tracking her fertility to save the world, and her Daddy said she couldn’t get pregnant. She trusts him.

John knows that once he confirms it, this second baby, he’ll automatically start treating his daughter more gently, more like the mother of his child. No more fucking her over the couch until she screams his name in ecstasy, no more letting her clamber on top and ride him like a stallion. He’s not ready to know for sure, to give up the two hours they steal early on workday afternoons. They are shameless and daring, like new lovers, not like new parents, nothing at all like father and daughter. Dean greets him bare-breasted, kneels to suck him hard before he’s closed the door. He brings her off on the old rag rug in the living room, teasing her until she’s shaking so hard he has to carry her to bed. They often use condoms (another reason Dean suspects nothing) because they need all the slickness they can get: she’s so tight and eager that there’s not enough time for foreplay. He tosses her onto the bed and she’s thrown her legs wide almost before she’s stopped bouncing.

John kisses his way up her thighs, leaving beard burn where only he will see it, and soon Dean is writhing and pulling his hair and he can’t resist her when she begs; has to give his little girl everything she wants, every inch. She’s molten inside, liquid heat, but with the condom he can last long enough to make her orgasm at least once, usually twice, before he lets go himself.   They shower together; by then, she’s twitching and over-sensitive, but so open that John can usually ease inside bare.   He takes her from the back, so that when they stand together in the spray and steam, he can put his palms on her belly to feel where he is cradled between her child-bearing hips. He never has enough time for lunch. Dean always ends up half-naked in the little kitchen trying to put together a sandwich. Sometimes, he’ll tug some milk from her tits before he hits the road, splashing it straight into his coffee. He’s going to miss having free reign over her body now that he has to share it.

**Conception plus 7 weeks**

John waits until the middle of the month—they’ll have to move again, no sense in losing the rent—before he magics a pregnancy test out of the medicine cabinet after their shower one afternoon. He lays Dean out in the tub like he does when he shaves her, kisses her into submission before she relaxes enough. Spread out like this, with her heels hooked over the rim of the tub, it’s like she’s in a doctor’s stirrups. At the first hot splash of urine, Dean blushes down to her nipples. John sets the little white stick aside and turns on the faucet to wash her all over again. He slips a finger into her, angles until he feels the spongy rim of her uterus. John watches her come apart under his touch.

They can hear Adam stir and begin to whimper in the next room. It’s a little past time for his feeding, but neither of them want to leave the steaming bathroom without knowing, and they both feel the need for a little ceremony. John wraps Dean in a towel, tucks her against his side, and reaches for the pregnancy test.

“Oh, Daddy, _yes_!” Dean says when she sees the positive test. The pleasure in her voice is totally different from when she shouts the same words in bed. And Adam, impatient, lets out a loud cry, making Dean’s tits overflow as her milk lets down.

**Conception plus 17 weeks**

Dean shows early with this one and John’s not sure if it’s because her body has already been primed and softened by her first pregnancy, or if the old wives’ tale is true and she’s carrying a girl. She keeps her strong arms and her bowed legs, but by the fifth month, she looks like she has a basketball harnessed to her slim hips. She starts pumping milk regularly so she can feed Adam with a bottle more often, because it’s hard to manage a squirming baby and the new one just starting to kick inside her. She still gives him the breast at night, though, when he’s drowsy. He doesn’t drink much, but she likes the comfort of his heavy warm body in her arms.

One night, when they’re about ten minutes into their nightly routine, Dean in the corner of the couch with her Henley undone and Adam nearly asleep in her arms, Sam looks up from where he’s doing his homework at the coffee table.

“I know it’s Dad’s baby,” her brother says, suddenly, shifting his attention from what must be algebra and may even be pre-calculus.

“What?” For a moment, Dean thinks she must have mis-heard. Sammy’s never said a word about the origins of Adam or his sibling. If pressed, Dean would have said he must have believed the plausible-but-vague account of an older boyfriend, shiftless and long gone, that they’d given the old midwife. After all, he’s just a kid. (There is no new midwife. At the various low-cost clinics that she visits, never the same one twice, Dean writes that her first child is now seventeen months old and shows around a photo of a toddler that came with a thrift-store frame. But midwives do home visits and will instantly clock the infant paraphernalia and want to know how a girl who looks like a young sixteen got pregnant twice in one year).

“The baby. The one in your belly, I mean. Well—Adam, too, I guess. I know Dad’s the one who knocked you up.”

Dean considers explaining about the curse…and then realizes that doesn’t actually explain anything now that there’s another baby to account for. She takes a deep breath, resolved to brazen things out. “So?” she demands, and she can’t help but notice how Sammy’s eyes lock onto her breasts when she squares her shoulders. He rolls the eraser of his pencil along his lip, nibbles it thoughtfully.

“So? So, I’m telling,” Sam replies shortly.

Dean gapes at him.

“There’s a social worker at school. I know there are a lot of fundamentalists around these parts, but not everyone is okay with old men f-fucking teenaged girls.” Sam blushes a little at his own words, but he doesn’t look away. “Especially teenagers who are their own daughters.”

“Sammy! You can’t!” Dean realizes she shouldn’t have used her brother’s nickname. He’s become sensitive about it since he’s grown as tall as she is. But she means it: he can’t tell anyone, ever. Dean’s seen enough day-time talk shows to know that there are tests they can do, tests to prove that Adam is Daddy’s son and that Dean is his daughter. _John_ , she reminds herself firmly, she has to start thinking of him as _John_ so that she doesn’t slip up when she tells the clinic nurses about her “husband.”   John, the father of her children.

“I can,” Sam stands up, decisively, walks over to where she’s sitting. “He shouldn’t…it’s wrong for him to make you—.” He’s next to her now and she hadn’t realized how tall he’d grown until she’s looking up at him. Dressed up right, Dean knows she can pass for seventeen if guys want to believe hard enough. But Sammy’s body looks three or four years older than his concerned face.

“He doesn’t _make_ me do anything,” Dean retorts. Sammy’s always been such a goody-goody, like if he plays by all the rules, he’ll fit in, be normal. So worried about….  

“Trouble,” Dean says quickly , “We’ll get in big trouble, me and Adam.” She puts a hand on Sam’s forearm, lets it drift up to his shoulder, tugs at his sleeve until he sits next to her on the couch. She can feel the muscle under his ragged t-shirt. He’s nearly skipped the gangly teenage stage: he’s tall, yes, but solid. Virile. “They’ll take us away,” she doesn’t mention Dad. He’ll be in the worst trouble of all, but she’s not sure that will sway Sam very much. She’s suddenly intuits something she’s not sure even Sam realizes: her brother is _jealous_.

“D’you _want_ us to go away?” Dean strokes Sammy’s hair (too long) and the nape of his neck.

Her brother shakes his head, wordlessly. He drops his eyes, fixes them on Adam. On where Adam’s mouth meets the swell of her full breast. He lets Dean guide his head to her shoulder. From there, he can smell her milk. Her left tit is leaking a little as Adam suckles on the right. Dean’s hand nudges his head a little, pushing him lower, inviting him,

Dean sighs when her little brother’s mouth latches on to her breast. It’s a sigh of relief—he won’t tell now, he can’t—but also one of pleasure. It is a little awkward—Sam’s so tall—but it feels _balanced,_ having two mouths at once. Sam’s arms circle her possessively.   When he feels a kick from the baby she carries, he breaks off, presses a milky kiss to her belly, and then returns to sucking as though it were the most natural thing in the world. _Jealous_ , Dean thinks. But jealous of John, not the babies. Sam wants to be the one sleeping with her, the one _impregnating_ her.  Dean relaxes into the old couch and lets her boys drink from her: in a lifetime of fighting monsters, she has never felt more powerful.

**Conception plus 22 weeks  
**

The next time, Sam waits until she’s put Adam into his drawer-crib, waits until she’s grown pliant with the easy draw of his mouth, before he pulls off. Dean whines, tries to pull him back, but he manages to ask… “What’s it feel like? When you and Dad…?”

“Good,” Dean interrupts quickly, because John’s been hunting for nearly a week and she’s so horny that she’s not sure what she’ll do if she has to hear her baby brother ask what it feels like when her own Daddy _fucks_ her. “So good.” She doesn’t intend to go into detail, but Sam makes a sweet inquisitive noise against her breast and she looks down to see he’s got his lips stretched around the whole of her big, dark aureole. His lashes flutter an instant before he sucks and her chest and belly go warm with anticipation. She can sense the pull all the way down in her hips. It’s not like Adam at all: how does her body know the difference? The words just flow out like milk. “I mean, he’s…big. He makes me feel so _full_. He just fills me up but I always want more, I want him all the way.”

She doesn’t know how to explain that she’d craved her Daddy’s cock even when she was a virgin, how being filled with his child was as close as she could get to having him in her always. But Sam makes a throaty, sympathetic sound, muffled by her tit. Her brother knows her so well. They hardly need words, which is good because his mouth is full.

“How big?” Sam asks, swallowing and turning her so he can teethe along her other nipple. Dean pulls his head close to her and then, when he finally starts to suckle again, she rewards him by putting his palm against the undercurve of her swollen belly, right where she often feels John’s cock when he takes her from behind.    

“He’s careful now, ‘cause I’m almost six months gone, but he used to go all the way to my womb.” Dean misses that, and not just cause Daddy’s hunting. She gets so desperate when she’s more than halfway; with Adam it was so bad that Daddy made her wear a chastity belt, and its worse this time, because it’s summer. Something about the warm weather on bare skin… She squirms and doesn’t object at all when Sam’s hand eases down her belly, under her skirt, to rest between her thighs. She has to reach around the swell of her belly to put his fingers where she wants them. She’s so wet there’s a luscious suction-y feeling when her cuntlips peel open.

Sam gasps louder than she does when his finger slides into her.

“Jesus, Dean!” He looks astonished, then calculating, as he runs through everything he’s heard in biology, on the Nature Channel, from older teenagers on the back of the bus. “Is it okay if I…?”

“Yeah, it’s okay. I like—” Dean arranges his hand so his palm brushes her clit and then, because she likes the dual stimulation, she brings his mouth back to her breasts. It’s something she’d never think to do with John, who knows her body almost better than she does. How far has Sam gone with a girl? He’s even more of an innocent than she was, younger and without the sort of reputation that encourages older boys to feel him up in cars and at movies. Dean brushes his hair out of his eyes. Her virginal baby brother. She’ll have to teach him... _everything_.

Sam’s thumb traces her cunt. He whimpers against her chest, “Is this where the baby…?”

She can understand his amazement. She’s so small, and the baby is so _big._ God, she gets so wet just thinking about how she’s going to have to stretch. She clenches involuntarily around her brother’s finger and he whimpers again, writhing against her. Dean pulls open his worn old cargo shorts, yanks them below the curve of his ass. They’re still sprawled on the couch, she can’t get a hand around him, so he just rocks against her thigh, rutting against her hip where it grows into the swell of her belly. She runs her hand down his sweaty back, cups his flexing asscheek, guides him as he grinds against her faster, faster... He convulses when he comes, shaking in her arms, panting so hard he’s nearly sobbing. She holds him through it, remembering the shock of her first few orgasms with Daddy: it had felt like someone had set her young nervous system on fire. When the aftershocks have settled a little, Dean slides off the couch. Kneeling at her brother’s feet, her belly brushes the floor, but cleaning Daddy with her tongue is one of her favorite things and she sees no reason to deny herself the pleasure with Sammy.

Her brother looks down at her, blearily. He’s mindlessly sucking two fingers and Dean would bet two loads of newborn laundry that those fingers taste like her. His thighs are still twitching with the occasional aftershock when she parts them and leans in to lick his softening, reddened cock. Sam whines, lifting his hips, offering himself awkwardly. He tastes different, of course: salty, but sweeter.   Sweat, soap, milk, Dean’s own slick…it takes a moment for Dean to realize what she’s _not_ tasting.

“Sammy?” She lets his cock, already filling again, smack against his belly.

“Uh?”

Dean can’t think of a delicate way to ask this, “Sam, sweetheart…did you come?”

“I, yeah,” Sam sounds dazed, “I think, I… felt amazing, Dee,” He seems to suddenly become aware of his half-naked sprawl. He tries to right himself, but Dean is still between his knees. “Dean, you—we, uhm, we shouldn’t…”  

Dean refuses to move. Daddy is working overtime to make money for baby things, plus trying to stay on top of a season of hunting all by himself. She and Sammy will be stuck alone out here in the woods for most of the summer; she’s not about to lose her playmate to some belated guilt. “Why not?” She nuzzles Sam’s groin. “Why shouldn’t we, Sam? Doesn’t hurt anybody. And I can’t get any more pregnant, right?” Dean can see the muscles jumping under the skin of his belly; she vaguely remembers when her own stomach was that flat. Sam wrestles with his conscience for all of five seconds before he succumbs to her mouth on his prick. Dean tastes just the thinnest beginnings of pre-cum. She certainly can’t get any more pregnant, and certainly not from Sam: her little brother is still too young to even ejaculate.

 

**Conception plus 25 weeks**

Sam spreads Dean out on the warm floorboards in the wash of the early afternoon sunlight.   She closes her eyes and lazily wonders what will happen to her sex life when Adam stops taking such long afternoon naps. She opens them when she hears something heavy land nearby: _The Complete Midwifery Home Guide to Pregnancy and Birth_ , a five-hundred page hardcover boosted from a university bookstore in Mississippi. It lies open at her hip and Sam seems to be comparing her cunt to figure 34c. Dean laughs so hard she can feel the baby hiccup in response. Her brother is such a geek.

She stops laughing when he starts the examination. That’s what it is—a physical examination, and at least as detailed as any doctor’s exam she’s received in her rotation of clinics. Sam folds her legs up, heels to ass, and spreads her so wide she feels the strain in her hips. He explores each fold of her pussy with a careful finger, then he gives her thigh a playful slap and then another, more serious, when he sees how she likes the first.

“So, young lady,” Sam leaves on hand soothing her stinging thigh and puts his other palm hot on her belly. “How far along are we?”

Jesus, Dean never feels bigger than when she sees one of her men’s hands on her swollen stomach. Her mouth is so dry she has to lick her lips to answer. “Almost seven months.”

“Almost seven months, _doctor_ ,” Sam corrects, with exactly the same reproving tone that medical men use with young pregnant women, especially those without wedding rings. Dean licks her lips again. So this is how they’re going to play it.

“Almost seven months, doctor,” she repeats meekly, and Sam rewards her by moving his hand down her thigh, ghosting his thumb along her pussy again.

“During pregnancy, there’s an increase in bloodflow to the—” Sam breaks off to consult the book, “vulva, making women more sensitive and, uh, wetter. Have you found that to be the case?”

Tease: he _knows_ how wet she gets, knows very well. But Dean just blinks innocently, “Why, yes, doctor! I do get very wet. I think you could feel it if you touched me, inside. Maybe you should check?”

“You want me to put my finger in you?” Sam takes direction so beautifully, looking up to Dean like she’s some sort of sex goddess instead of nearly new at all this.

“Two fingers,” Dean corrects and whimpers when she feels him open her, even though she knows what’s coming. She lays back, idly playing with her nipples as Sam’s fingers slide along . He mouths words from the textbook— _labia minora_ , _vaginal os_ , damn, hips lips look filthy when he mouths _vulva_ while tracing Dean’s with his fingertips. Dean lets her eyes drift shut as he scissors inside her. She’s never minded going to all of her doctor’s appointments, even though they usually entail long drives to other counties and a confusion of fake IDs. It makes her feel like she’s doing something good for her baby. Plus, since most of the secretaries and physician’s assistants are also young mothers, often with several kids and no husband, it gives her a chance to talk to other women about birth and babies. For practical purposes, it’s better than sex ed with the Baptists.   Their second-hand stories about deadbeat husbands and absentee baby-daddies always make her grateful for what she has. (“Oh, lucky girl, you’ve kept your pretty tits!” one nurse’s assistant had said as she helped Dean into a paper gown at her six month appointment. “Your man’s not going anywhere.” Dean smiles at the memory as she cups her heavy breasts. Remembering, too, how she’d made daddy pull over on the way home from that clinic, how she’d bent over with her hands on the Impala’s bumper and made him fuck her right there on the deserted service road, her pretty tits hanging down like udders).

Sam’s sticky fingers run over the taut skin of her belly, measuring. He glances from her big round stomach to a chart in the book.

“You’re big for seven months,” he says, just like her last doctor had.

Dean hitches her hips to remind him that she’s been left open and wanting, but she gives the same reply she’d given before. “It’s daddy—my husband,” she blushes the way she never does in front of a real doctor. Sam kisses her knee to encourage her. “He’s a big man. My brother’s big too. My first baby was ten pounds, ” she boasts (this always impresses the girls at the doctor’s offices: “ten _pounds_? On those little hips? And you don’t hardly even look pregnant from the back.”).

“ Oh, this is already your second baby?” Sam feigns ignorance. “You must like being pregnant.”

“Ye-es,” Dean’s voice catches as Sam dips his fingers into her again, deeper. “I do. I like—I like getting all big. Uhm, I like having the baby—oh, God, Sammy, that’s _good_ —having the baby inside me, safe and heavy, m’babies’re always so hea--uh, I can’t—three is too…”

“Shh,” Sam hushes her like he does Adam when the baby gets fussy. “You can take three of my fingers, prob’ly more. You’ve got a whole baby in there. Not like you’re a blushin’ virgin.” She tries to clamp her thighs closed, but Sam patiently holds her open. “I’ll put my mouth on you when you do…,” he wheedles.

That’s something she taught him, how to please her with his tongue. He’d been so innocent he’d never even _thought…_ And he never minds when she bosses him around, something she’d never do with Daddy. Dean relents.

“No wonder you like being pregnant so much, look so pretty when you are, all swollen up,” Sam praises. “Yeah, go ahead, touch your titties if you want. Can hardly keep my hands off ‘em myself.” And, already, Dean can feel herself beginning to stretch.

“So,” Sam resumes his doctor persona, “I’ll just be checking your cervix. Should still be tight at this point. You’re sure about seven months, almost seven? Couldn’t be off by a few weeks? A month late? You’re so big. You must like _getting_ pregnant, too, right? You even sure when you got knocked up?”

Dean’s whole body is prickly with heat and arousal. Her hands slide on her breasts, slick with sweat and milk. It’s doing her head in, the way Sam keeps switching from playing doctor, to teasing her about being such a slut, to probing for information. And all time while opening her up—she gasps at the stretch of another knobby knuckle. Sam’s always had such big hands; Daddy used to say they were like a dogs paws, signs that he’d be big when he grew up. Daddy. Oh, yes, she knew when they’d started this baby: she couldn’t be off by a month, because she’d still _been_ pregnant a month before conceiving this one. Maybe Sam’s right; she is a slut. She’s rolling her hips as much as she can under the weight of her belly, trying to bring Sam’s fingers to her womb, _shaking_ every time he touches her there. Someday, it’ll be his cock that deep, she thinks, full grown and filling her with another baby. And she comes, sharp and sudden as a thunderclap when her brother’s tongue licks her clit.

“It was a—at New Year’s,” Dean moans, when she can breathe again. “My brother was minding the baby.” Sam growls when she includes him in the story. This is usually as much as she tells whoever is filling out the clinic paperwork: she knows the conception date because she and her husband had gotten frisky after a late party, one night when they had a babysitter but no condoms. At this point, sitting in a second-hand chair in an underfunded rural clinic, Dean will rest her hands on her belly and give a bashful smile, “It’s a little sooner than we’d planned, but…” and then a shrug. Happy accident.  But Sam has her ankle over his shoulder, rutting his immature little cock against her ass, and his fingers are moving ever closer to her womb. So she tells him how Daddy had drunk her milk. She babbles about the hot, throbbing length of him, when he’d fucked her in the car. Blushin’ virgin. How he’d _gushed_ inside her, how she’d propped her hips up to tip all his seed toward her waiting eggs. Happy but no accident.

Sam is working her with four fingers now, the whole flat of his hand, and his thumb curled up to hit her clit. Dean doesn’t thinks she’s been spread this wide since she gave birth. It’s so good her hips are starting to spasm, her belly jerking, her tits bouncing each time his knuckles punch through. It’s too much, it’s so good, she tries to tell him so. Her bladder’s been pretty reliable, considering she’s had a baby sitting on it for most of the last year, but…she opens her mouth and all that comes out are pathetic little mewls.   Sam curls his fingers inside of her, rubbing hard, and he bends down to where her belly button is jutting out, latches on like it’s a nipple.

Illogically, when Dean can finally raise her head and sees Sam’s narrow chest covered with slick, she thinks for a moment that somehow her water has broken. But she’s twitching between her legs, not deeper, even though the baby’s turning somersaults inside. Dean’s never even come close to squirting before, hadn’t even thought she could. Sam deserves a reward for his diligence. That’s the moment Dean resolves to relieve her little brother of his virginity.


	5. let me do what I please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is all Sam/girl!Dean. Still underage, still incest, still unrepentant. Merry Christmas, ya filthy animals.

**Conception plus 36 weeks**

Daddy is barely home ten days in the whole of June and, since school’s out, Dean and Sam have plenty of time to explore. After one long session at the start of Dean’s seventh month, Dean takes her brother by the hand, like he’s still a little boy, and leads him to bed. They’ve avoided the formality of the bedroom, playing instead on the sofa, on the floor—that’s how Dean thinks of it, when she dares to. It’s not so different from the way she taught him to hunt by “playing” tag, taught him to stalk prey by “playing” hide and seek: she’s always passed on to him whatever Daddy has taught her. The time has come for a new lesson.

They’ve been playing for an hour, ever since she put Adam down to sleep in the long summer evening, and Dean needs something deep inside. As she climbs into bed, she can feel how wet her thighs are from the enthusiasm with which Sam has eaten her out. She is tempted to stay on her knees, since Sammy’s cock looks deliciously long, but she wants to see his face the first time he’s inside a woman. She’ll add it to the collection of firsts she’s collected with Sam: first tooth, first day of school, first hunt, first kill, first orgasm. Sam settles between her knees and then stops, unsure of his next move. Feeling almost maternal, Dean reaches around the mountain of her own stomach to guide him.

“Oh. God, Dee…,”  Sam whimpers when he finally breeches her.

“Shhh, it’s okay...c’mon,” she urges, cupping one surprisingly muscled asscheek and pulling him into her. He bucks clumsily once or twice and then slides into her in one long, breathtaking glide. His face registers confusion and delight, like the first time Adam rolled himself over: surprise at a new and bigger world. He comes after only a few awkward jerks…or rather, he softens, since Dean isn’t sure his tight little balls are actually producing anything yet. She runs gentling hands up and down his back, from his tight shoulders to his shuddering hips. She slips one finger down to touch his hole. (Sam’s so curious about everything, asks a new question about pregnancy every few days. Surely he must wonder what it’s like to be penetrated?) Then, she locks her legs around him and flexes her pelvic muscles until he begins to stiffen again.

He lasts longer the second time and it’s full dark when he finally slumps against her, spent and tender. Distantly, Dean can hear the sound of fireworks from just outside town. “Happy Independence Day, Sam,” she whispers.

**Conception plus 38 weeks**

Sam is so _smooth_ compared to John. It’s not just his nearly hairless body (though his flat, shell-pink nipples make Dean want to lick and bite), or his clever, uncalloused fingers (just one rough place on the side of his right middle finger, where his pencil rests, where he teases her g-spot once she tells him what and where it is.) It’s his cock—a long, slender stalk, uncut so even the big head seems to blend in with the shaft. Although a respectable size for a teenager, it doesn’t yet have John’s girth or the thick veins that make Dean moan. He needs to use his fingers if he wants to make her squirt, and even then it doesn't always happen. It is only because she’s so swollen with baby that he stretches her much at all. Even this late in her pregnancy, she can take him all the way, just a faint internal cramp when he nudges her uterus. Like John, Sam discovers that she likes that depth. He begins to listen for the kick in her breathing, her wail (“unh-ah, yeah, Sammee!”) when his cockhead kisses her there. Sam always was a quick study.

He still comes with his whole body, his orgasm like a seizure, but he goes longer each time. It’s beautiful to watch him work so hard for her pleasure— breathless, face red, sweat-slick hips pumping, trying futilely to hold out against a force stronger than he is. Dean imagines it is a little like what she must have looked like, birthing Adam. She cuddles him after, whispering praise. Her beautiful boy. His tight balls have begun to twitch and Dean thinks it can’t be too long now before he’s producing sperm just like Daddy. After all, he is big for his age, precocious. She wonders if all their play has accelerated the process, the way having so much nipple stimulation has kept her milk production high.

**Conception plus 39 weeks, 4 days**

Dean bursts into Sam’s room without knocking, moments after she hears him shout. She curses herself for moving so slowly these days; she’ll never forgive herself if—

Dean’s eyes sweep his tiny corner of the trailer, looking for the monster, before settling on Sam, naked and blushing in the muddle of his twin bed.

“I’ve been trying to hold it, all week,” Sam pants, grinning. “But I was dreaming’n I woke up so hard, I had to—I couldn’t…”

“Hold it?” Dean can’t quite wrap her mind around the idea that nothing is attacking them. Her nesting instincts are out of control. Without even thinking about it, she picks a blanket that’s slipped from the bed and starts folding it automatically.

“For you.”

That’s when Dean notices the white trail of spunk on Sam’s stomach, the plum-red head of his prick, the proud expression on his face. Her baby brother fires with real bullets now. _Live ammo_ , in every sense of the word.

Dean probably shouldn’t. She’s been feeling twinges in her lower back for days, a new heaviness in her hips. She’s three days from her due date (calculated from the night she’d given up her virginity in the Impala because how could that not be the night Daddy knocked her up?). Her stomach is enormous and, with the baby this big, a good, strong orgasm could bring her into true labor. She shouldn’t. But her brother is a man now, and he says he's been saving up his cum for her.

Daddy will be back in an hour—he doesn’t leave for long since Dean told him she could feel the baby starting to drop. She can’t take John’s thick dick now, of course, hasn’t for a week, but surely she could still manage Sammy’s young cock…

Dean pulls off her voluminous nightgown, part of a wardrobe of proper maternity clothes John had suddenly brought home three weeks ago. She clambers onto Sam’s narrow bed to lick the white stripe off his belly. She’s still fascinated by his lean stomach with its nascent six-pack, so different from her own round, distended form. She slips her tongue into his mouth when they kiss, lets him suck the taste off. She waits until his mouth has moved on to her tits before she starts giving him instructions.

“Want you behind, ok? I’ll get on my knees at first, sit up a little once you’re in…” So what if she’s bossy?: this may well be the last fuck she has before the baby comes, and she wants that dick all the way in and just right.

Sam slides deep inside her with a practiced twist of his hips, then pulls out to tease her opening with the head of his dick. They’ve been playing for weeks; he knows just how she likes it. Once, she gasps and jerks against him, her inside muscles going too painfully tight.

“You okay, Dean?”

“Yeah,” she grunts, “False labor. Off’n’ on all morning. Play with my tits,” she directs, pulling his hands to her nipples to distract herself.

Sam growls, thinking of how big she is, how close to birthing. He’s done research, at the school library, in the home midwifery book: he knows how a woman’s body opens in the last few days of pregnancy. He leaves her milk-heavy breasts, puts his hands on her stomach. It sways slowly under her as he thrusts in and out. He lifts it, takes some of the weight and Dean sit up, groaning with relief.

“Ohhh, yeah, Sammy. Like that. L-lemme _move_.”

Sam cradles Dean’s belly while she sits on him and circles her hips. The littlest member of his family. None of this half-sibling shit: this is the baby his father put into his sister. His family all the way.

“Want the next one to be mine,” Sam breathes, easing Dean forward onto her knees and elbows. “I can do it now—fill you up, put a baby in you.”

“Yes,” Dean croons, “ _yes_ ,” because he’s all the way in, opening her as smoothly as a key fitted into an oiled lock, his cockhead knocking on the door to her womb. His balls smack her pussy and she can feel the prickle of his new hair against her back. Her baby brother’s grown enough to give her a baby of his own, and it’s wrong, wrong, _wrong,_ but she wants it. Wants the making of it—these hard, deep thrusts, big hands maneuvering her hips, the slide of bare cock, the scalding seed—and wants the result: a part of him growing big within her, the stretching, the push of birth. Wants _everything_ that comes with carrying her brother’s baby.

“Yeah, yeah, Sammy, give it to me. How’re y’gonna…?”

He doesn’t tell her how he’s going to do it—doesn’t have the breath or the words. He shows her instead, wraps one arm around her chest, above her heaving belly, and hammers into her core until she climaxes. Sam bursts a moment later, hard enough to see stars and black spots. Dean is writhing against him, panting something that he can’t hear over the rushing in his ears. All his senses narrow down to the sweet, strong contractions around his dick; he’s frantic with need, never wants them to stop. He rubs another orgasm out of her, rough fingertips working blindly under the bulk of her stomach. Feeling her come around him a second time wrings him dry, makes him _hurt_ , but he can’t stop grinding into her cunt until she cries out again and begs him to _stop, it’s too much…_.

Sam collapses onto his side, half pulling his sister with him, and lays there until the clenches of her aftershocks push out his sore cock. Dean rolls onto her back, turns to kiss her brother’s flushed, tear-stained face.

“I…I came. Inside you,” he says, muzzily, voice so astonished that Dean has to kiss him again.

“Uh-huh, you did,” Dean is panting, fitting her words in between breaths as she comes down. “Did so good for me, baby.”

Sam’s back aches; his balls feel like they’ve been turned inside out. He’d given everything. Well, almost. “Gonna give you a baby, next time.” His throat is sore: he must have been shouting without realizing it.

Dean brings him to her breast then and, like John, like Adam, he suckles until he’s dozing, vaguely aware of her gently petting his hair. Sam stirs when he feels her breathing drop into her chest, become a hoarse growling. He has one arm casually slung over her body, possessive as he drifted into sleep, and he feels her taut belly go even tighter under his hand.

“Dean?” He tries to sit up, still half-asleep. “Dee, is it…? His sister wears a look like one that had flashed over her face the first time he’d made her squirt, and then her forehead creases in concentration. She shifts in his arms, arching against him—Jesus, Sam thinks, her stomach’s like a rock.

Dean bites her lip, then gasps: “Uhhh, uh-huh, … yeah, Sam, Sammy—oh, it’s beginning.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is a series of fic-bits pasted together, so there are some time jumps: pay attention to the subheading and--as always--the tags.

**Second birth plus 26 weeks/Conception minus 5 minutes**

Daddy had woken to watch Mary’s early morning feeding, laying down beside his daughter and her daughter in the pearly autumn light. Daddy had gently unlatched the baby, walked her, burped her, and settled her back in her crib (Adam’s drawer, repurposed now that he’s toddling around). Dean didn’t bother to button up her nightshirt. Nursing her babies always filled her with a strange, primitive energy. Daddy would be tired—long hours at many jobs to support and protect his growing family, interrupted nights—but he’d let her have her way.

She sucks him til he’s half-asleep and all hard. She feels small like this, thighs spread to straddle him, belly and breasts empty. Daddy’s eyes are closed, but his hands move over her as she rides, stroking her legs, guiding her hips. She moves languorously at first, letting his cock open her. Jesus, he’s—the thickness is always a surprise, no matter how often they do this. They have to be quiet to keep from waking Mary: the only sounds are the creaking bed, Daddy’s rough breathing. Dean hears a squeak as the old trailer settles and she imagines Sam easing open the bedroom door, watching.

Daddy’s body begins to respond and his hand comes up to pluck her nipples, to pet her flat stomach. _Yes, yes,_ Dean tries to convey her permission, dropping down to ride him like a jockey. Daddy wraps his arms around her, locking her against his chest, holding her to him as his hips pump relentlessly. Dean can’t move, can’t _breathe._ The hair on his chest scrapes her nipples, still soft from Mary’s mouth. She kisses his throat, gasps and sinks her teeth into his pectoral muscle to keep from crying out when he prods her womb.

John loves that Dean still gasps breathlessly when he bottoms out. Her eyes roll back and she holds him still with her thighs, as though his slightest movement will be too much. Fuck, she’s so _tight,_ even after birthing twice—John thinks it must be ‘cause she’s so young. She’s so resilient he knows her body was _made_ for this. He can still nearly span her waist with his big hands, there’s just a little extra flesh to remind him that he’s already put two babies inside her. Afterwards, she lets him doze on her belly, twitching when he plays with her nipples. John smiles; her breasts always gets so tender when she’s fertile.

**Conception plus 8 weeks**

Dean shakes through her climax, clinging to her Daddy like a limpet, whimpering "yes, mmm, _yeah, Daddy_ —right there!” She whines when he pulls out, but he just curls her into his lap and slips two fingers into her pussy. He strokes her stomach until the final pulses of her orgasm have petered into a weak compressions, then lets his palm rest over the unborn child she doesn’t know he knows about. He estimates she’s maybe six weeks gone; it's time to confront her about it.

“Somethin’ you wanna tell me, baby girl?”

Dean hesitates a moment, unsure of quite where to start.

“Sam n’I—I’ve been…” She looks down her body, temporarily and freakishly slender except for her big-nippled breasts, which have been full of milk for going on three years now. Her legs are spraddled over John's, her feet dangling like a little girl on Santa’s lap. Except she’s the one bearing the gift.

Dean feels safe like this, in Daddy’s arms. He’s always given her everything she wanted, had given her Adam and Mary…but this feels like asking for too much. She’s aware of his cock softening against her ass, his fingers in her pussy, his baby in her belly. She switches tacks suddenly, decisively: “This one’s yours. I want the next one to be Sammy’s.”

Daddy nuzzles her hair. “All right by me, girl. We all gotta share.”

It’s a compromise, having them alternate, share her body. After all, Dean rationalizes, she can’t have them both at once. (She can, actually—as they discover in her fifth month. It’s so _much_ , Dean almost calls it off, even though it was her idea. But then Sammy comes quick and hot. Daddy kisses him through it and it’s so beautiful they do it twice more before she gets too big. Her third baby is the easiest birth yet, and Dean suspects it’s because she was so well stretched).

**Conception plus 24 weeks**

Before the birth of her third child, Dean participates for a few weeks in a “mindful pregnancy” study; the local land-grant university is partnering with low-cost clinics to train _disadvantaged mothers_ (read: young, pregnant, unmarried) in methods to reduce birthing anxiety. Dean signs herself up for any free offerings at the clinic: she’s never been a good student, but that doesn’t make her stupid and she is, for better or for worse, relentlessly curious about pregnancy.   Of course, she only goes to that clinic for a few weeks in her second trimester, so she gets just a few questionnaires, a lecture on visualizing, and one focus group.   It’s enough to make her realize she’s different from other pregnant women. Different in her mind, for one thing. She’s not actually anxious. Why would she be? She’ll care for this baby, and her Daddy and her brother will care for her. Besides, the doctors in the study don’t know it, of course, but she’s already done this twice—she knows what’s going to happen.

“And you don’t have any particular, uh, post-birth concer…I mean, babies need…” the young grad student holding the clipboard stutters as his eyes land on Dean’s enormous belly. Jeremy something, Dean can’t recall his last name.

Dean resists the urge to roll her eyes. What does Jeremy know?  He’s probably the veteran of a few fumbling undergraduate encounters. All birth control and condoms and no real risk.  No commitment. Dean is tempted to peel his fingers off the clipboard and put them on her swollen stomach. She’d let him stroke the drum-tight skin where her newest daughter kicks, where Daddy likes to kiss her.

“Babies need love and milk,” Dean says dismissively, and she’s pleased when his eyes drop automatically to her chest. She’d fed Mary (and Sam) right before driving to the clinic, but that was ages ago now and she can feel the sweet heaviness of her tits filling. She’d let this Jeremy dip each breast out of the cup of her nursing bra, let him touch and maybe even lick her nipples. They’d be so unlike the perky ones he’s seen in porn. So _real_.

Dean can tell from his accent that he’s from around here, an overgrown, football-playing farm-boy who somehow ended up in the graduate psychology department at State U. He wouldn’t be in this room pretending to be a middle-class intellectual if he’d given into his urges and slept with his high school girlfriend or knocked up that co-ed from Sophomore Comp.

Second trimester, when she’s undeniably showing but still agile, always make Dean itchy with lust. Last time she’d been this pregnant, she’d seduced her little brother. Lately, she’s been wondering about having Daddy and Sam at the same time. Meanwhile, there’s Jeremy. Jeremy’s a big guy, square hands on the clipboard, bull neck strangling in that dress shirt and tie. If she got him out of those khakis, if he got her up on that table with the stirrups—she knows he’d fuck her _thoroughly_.

Dean knows, from the clinic staff’s surprised glances and her astronomical mindfulness scores as much as from talking to other “disadvantaged mothers”, that she has what the graduate students call a “high mind-body connection.” Most women don’t know their baby’s gender the way she does—quickly, certainly, just waking up one morning with the secure knowledge that her child is a boy or a girl. Most women don’t _feel_ their men ejaculating within them, don’t know the moment of conception purely from the sensation of it.

Dean can feel it, though: the hot spark of sperm joining egg, of a fertilized egg crash-landing in her uterus, of life pulsing and blooming inside her. She doesn’t know if it’s because of all the fertility rites before Adam, or if it’s because her lovers are blood relations. She’d thought she's felt it, when Daddy took her virginity and gave her Mary in exchange, but this third time—baby Lilith—she'd known instantly.  She doesn't mention that to Jeremy, though, for him to jot down on his silly chart.  She just strokes her belly and wonders if she'll be able to tell right away with Sammy's baby, too.   

**Third birth plus 53 weeks  
**

With three children in the house—Adam, Mary, and little Lilith—Sam and Dean would _never_ fuck if they waited for John to leave. So they don’t. Gradually, they forget any discretion at all. Soon, Dean takes to leaving the bedroom door open, so she can keep an ear out for the children. One day, she looks over Sam’s shoulder and sees her father watching them from the doorway, his cock like a tent pole in his trousers. Before long, one of their kitchen chairs takes up permanent residence in the bedroom, so John can watch. Then, late one afternoon when Sam’s big hands are dragging her hips relentlessly down onto his rigid dick and Dean’s got her palms braced on the headboard to withstand his thrusts and she’s whining out her need for _something_ on her neglected clit, it’s Daddy who provides the extra fingers. Dean comes so hard she passes out; she wakes curled in bed between her father and her brother.

After that, getting her pregnant with Sam’s child becomes a mission they share, a new hunt. Sam knows her with an eerie intuition, but Daddy has years of experience—with Dean and others. Between them, they make her body sing. Daddy is always there to remind Sam of how sore Dean’s milk-bag tits get if they bounce too long. He’s there to tug on Sammy’s balls if it looks like the boy will come too quickly, and to keep Dean wet and ready as her brother’s refractory period lengthens. He massages Dean’s belly (Sam’s a big boy and he sometimes works her hard) and milks Sam’s prostate (Dean is voracious and she sometimes sucks him dry). He eases their anxiety as the days become weeks—the longest Dean's gone without catching since...well, since she caught with Adam back when she was still an untouched virgin.  John, voice of reason, reminds them that Dean’s been through the hormonal storm of pregnancy repeatedly, that she’s still nursing, that there’s plenty of time. She’ll catch when she’s ready.

And she does. It happens one day when it’s warm enough to open all the doors. Adam and Mary sleep on a blanket spread on the floor, little Lilith’s still in her crib, and Dean is on her back in bed, legs thrown wide enough to admit every adult male in her family. Sam is plowing her with deep, regular thrusts and Daddy kneels, half behind him, guiding his hips. Dean’s come already, maybe twice, and she’s in that sweet, open state where her senses have fractured. She’s hyperaware of the way her soft, sore breasts shift every time Sam’s movements lift her ass off the bed. Distantly, she can hear her own throaty panting. She’s captivated by the play of muscle in Sammy’s abdomen—he gleams with her juices—with the fluid way her Daddy rides against Sam’s left asscheek so that she feels the strength of both of them driving into her. Above her, Sammy and Daddy are kissing, bearded lips tasting Sam’s teasing young tongue whenever Dean clenches down to make the teenager gasp. Sam looks flushed and disheveled, glassy-eyed. Her beautiful baby brother is going to make beautiful babies.

Dean’s trying to decide if she can leave this contentment to climb to another when the decision is made for her. Daddy must put his fingers inside Sam because her brother’s strokes suddenly go short and deep. Dean’s eyelids flutter shut.  She imagines her Daddy’s big hand cradling her baby brother’s tight ass, guiding him like a puppet. When she opens her eyes, she sees Sam’s head has fallen forward, mouth open, eyes closed in pleasure. Daddy runs his free hand down Sam’s broadening chest, plucks a nipple in a way that makes Dean’s own burn. A pause at Sam’s groin and suddenly, Daddy’s hand is on Dean’s thigh, easing Sam’s grip there, reminding his son that’s she’s fragile, bruisable. For a moment, Dean thinks he’s going to slide his fingers in next to Sammy’s dick—she loves it when he does that. But his goes right over her cunt and settles his calloused palm on her belly. The absence makes Dean newly aware of just how wide open she is. Sam’s splitting her; he didn’t come when she did (Daddy’s big hand on his stones and a firm “no!”): he must be bursting.

Daddy must twist his wrist, because Sam drops down onto his elbows, covering Dean. Daddy’s hand on Dean’s stomach is holding her still for her brother’s churning hips. Between the two, Dean can’t move. Relentlessly, Sam’s cock bumps her cervix going in and her g-spot going out. Dean’s hearing whites out whenever her brother touches her empty womb, but she can hear Daddy’s word as a counterpoint to her brother’s breeding: ‘…now…fertile— _made for_ …fill … with babies…”

“You want that, Dee? Want Sam t’give you his baby?”

Dean realizes they’re looking and her, talking to her. “Yes,” she pants, “gimme, I _need_ —,” she babbles, she nearly sobs. She can feel Sammy’s thick cock burrowing into her, deep, deeper. She spasms, a hard internally clench when he hits the tight muscle of her uterus: it’s as inevitable as a contraction, burning and delicious. Above her, Sam is grunting, shaking, his face wiped blank by intense sensation.  She doesn’t know it yet, but this is what he’ll look like in a few months when she cradles him against her swelling body, gentling him the first time Daddy takes his virgin ass.

John pushes down, feels the knob of his son’s teen-aged cock work into his daughter’s belly. He hooks his thumb on her clit; she’s so wet, he only finds it because she’s so swollen. Her hips start to jump the way they always do when she’s about to orgasm from deep penetration. He wonders if she’ll ejaculate—she does that sometimes, since she and Sam started fucking.

They think he doesn’t know that they’ve been at it for over a year, since before Lilith was even conceived. They think they he doesn’t know it was Dean who took Sam’s virginity, Sam who brought his sister into labour the second time. Someday he’ll tell them about how he detoured from a hunt, that summer when Dean was so gloriously big with Mary. He’d timed his arrival for Adam’s nap and parked the truck on the road, walking silently down their long rural driveway so he wouldn’t wake the baby. He’d approached so quietly he’d been able to hear Dean’s guttural moans over the squeak of the swing on the screened in porch tacked on behind the trailer. Dean had been sitting in the swing that day, on Sam’s lap, their smooth young limbs so intertwined that from a certain angle, it looked almost like _Sam_ was seven-months gone. They’d been lazily swinging, each return pushing Sam deeper into his sister until Dean had started to tremble, then shake, and finally squirt. Evidently not for the first time, given how quickly she’d recovered and persuaded Sam onto the floor of the porch. They’d both still been sparking with aftershocks when she’d jacked him hard and squatted over him until her belly rested on his and his prick must have been touching her full womb. A few moments later, Sam’s hips had started pumping and Dean had run her hands over her stomach and laughed with delight. john had stood in the shadow of the woods and watched his daughter milk his son.  Then, months into his daughter's second pregnancy, he’d driven into town and finally bought a wardrobe of maternity clothes. At that point, it had become a worthwhile investment since it looked like Dean wasn’t planning to stop at two babies.

She won’t be stopping at three, either, given the way Sam’s ass is clenching under John’s guiding hand. Sam tosses his head, trying to clear his sweaty bangs from his eyes.

“Can’t,” he pants, “I—it’s too much, I…”

”You can—you can, you’re so strong, just a little longer,” John soothes, the way he had Dean when she was exhausted and wrung-out in her eighteenth hour of labour with Mary. He eases behind Sam, driving his son’s hips with his own. He can feel Dean’s belly contract under his hand, and he pushes down, knows Sam is right up inside her, deep as he can be.

John’s children orgasm at the same moment, crying out simultaneously. Sam’s shout is just a few octaves lower than Dean’s as the boy pours himself into his sister. Dean is writhing, whimpering as Sam’s well-trained hips move hard and automatic as pistons. John runs a proud hand down Sam’s broadening back and gently cups his balls, feeling the way they pulse and twitch. His other hand is trapped between their slick young bodies. He can feel Sam’s abs tighten with each wave, then a corresponding pull in Dean’s soft belly.

Minutes later, spent and shuddering, Sam lets his head drops onto his Dean’s shoulder. Dean guides him to a breast, sighing contentedly as he begins to suckle. Sammy mewls when John kneads two fingers against his prostate, reinforcing what John suspected: there’s nothing left, the boy’s balls are empty. Maybe his sister’s belly is full?

Dean glances up at him, peeking over her brother’s tanned shoulder. She’d told him once, as they’d paced the room while she labored with Lillith, that she could feel her babies being implanted within her. “Didn’t, at first. How could I? I’d never… I mean, I felt it, but I didn’t know what it meant. But, now I can tell. Can tell as soon as it happens.” Lil’s birth had been the quickest yet, and Dean hadn’t walked long. John had tried to keep her talking, even when she’d squatted to push. He’d knelt behind her, massaging her back or her nipples, while Sam had waited in front to catch.

“That early morning, after I fed Mary,” Dean had gasped between contractions. Sam had looked puzzled, but John had known she was remembering the day they’d conceived the very baby she was laboring to bring forth.

“That’s right,” John had encouraged and, feeling her hips tense for another push, he’d added, “that must’ve been it. Gently now—and Mary?”

“Oh,…ahhh, inna Impala,” Dean had gritted out, her back arching.

“Yeah?” John had his hand between her legs, he could feel the baby crowning. A girl, if Dean was right.

“The head!” Sam had announced, breathless, but Dean was still in the throes. It was Sammy’s first birth—if he was going to father the next baby, he should know, John thought—but Dean and John were experts. They knew the crown was just the beginning and all of John’s babies are big.

“After we— _unhh_ , _Daaddy!—_ broke the curse....remember?,” Dean had moaned, her voice growing thready as she’d stretched for the baby’s shoulders. “My milk?  My first time….”

After that, there had been only pushing and wailing and finally, just as Dean had foretold, a baby girl. Only later, while she’d been nursing the newest addition, Lillith, had John thought asked about Adam. Dean had confirmed what he'd always suspected: that their miracle baby, son of a virgin mother, had been conceived immediately, before she’d ever had a cock inside her, the moment John’s sperm had reached her egg.

Now John looks down at the tangled limbs of his oldest children, his firstborn daughter suckling his firstborn son, and wonders if they’ve just started his grandchild. Dean’s eyes meet his over Sam’s head, and she smiles like she knows just what he’s thinking.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the underage kink meme prompt so always-a-girl Dean is underage, although I haven't specified exactly how young. I'm tagging it "non con" because of age of consent issues, rather than because of any explicit rape or non-consensual moments in the fic. Read the tags carefully, as this is a very explicit, adult work. 
> 
> Having trouble visualizing the girl-Dean in this story? Try this NSFW tumblr link: http://coachmoon.tumblr.com/post/23756235269/maternity-with-k-she-went-into-labor-about-3


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